


The Melody of Words

by Marble_Ocean



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Doropetra, Doropetra Week 2020, F/F, Library AU, More tags to be added but there will be ashdue cos I love em, Petrathea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23376793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marble_Ocean/pseuds/Marble_Ocean
Summary: Petra’s always had a love for the concept of destiny, the idea that everyone must walk their fated path. She would be foolish- no, blasphemous- to try and sully something crafted especially for her. So, when she lays her eyes upon the rather angry looking woman and watches as she rises to her challenger, Petra wonders at the strange little flutter under her ribs. Like a tide to the moon, she feels compelled to be closer to her.Librarian AU for Doropetra Week 2020
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 145
Collections: Doropetra Week 2020





	1. How Can I Help You?

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Doropetra Week, don't forget to find us on twitter @DoroPetraWeek !

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1 Prompts: Retreat, "I didn't think this was even possible..." and/or Librarian/Reader AU 
> 
> You can guess which one I went with. Day 1 prompts were made by yours truly~

Petra’s hands clutch the arm rests, she can feel the fabric under her nails as she makes light scratches. Her feet tap the floor to no particular rhythm even as a ding! sounds overhead.

“We’ll soon be making our descent, please ensure all seat belts are securely in place.” Petra can hear the polite ‘service smile’ in the captain's voice. She thinks about her Dayn on Brigid’s tour boats and clings harder. “Our cabin crew will be making the rounds now.”

She didn’t take her seat belt off once during the flight. She didn’t touch her phone or her books or do much of anything besides stare at the screen situated at the back of the seat in front of her. She watched the pixelated airplane trudge across the map with each passing minute. Now it’s finally stopped over their destination, four hours later.

A hand alarmingly reaches down to her and Petra nearly startles until she realizes, yes, cabin crew are checking seat belts. She mutters her thanks and the pink-haired lady smiles at her. There’s a curious look in her gaze, like Petra is a puzzle. She figures she’s going to have to get used to getting such looks.

“We’ll be landing shortly.” Says… Petra squints to read her name tag. Says Hilda. “Make sure you don’t forget your cute bag, yeah?”

“I will not be forgetting.” Petra doesn’t smile so much as twitches the corner of her lips. They haven’t landed just yet, she’s allowing herself to feel the nerves prickling under her skin. “Thank you.”

Hilda nods politely and moves along.

Minutes later, Petra’s stomach dips along with the nose of the plane. She almost doesn’t want to land, she knows that when she does, she won’t be in Brigid anymore. She technically knew that when she watched as they crossed the sea but planes are so oddly constrictive it was hard to believe they were going anywhere.

It’s useless to wish for them to have travelled by boat, she knows this but to have travelled in the cradle of the ocean would have greatly comforted her. Y Môr could have guided her to Fódlan, not this giant fuel-spitting monstrosity.

As the first bump of the wheels making contact with the earth jolt the plane, her Daid’s words echo in her ears.

“ _Learn the world. If you are to take my place, you are to take your fury and your misery and bury it deep till it roots._ ”

On the second bounce, she remembers saying goodbye to her favourite fishing spot. On the third, Petra Macneary steels herself for Enbarr.

~*~

Airport security eyes her slowly.

“Everything is well?” Petra says, tucking her passport back into her bag but not before glancing at her photo. She doesn’t like it much, one of her braids is loose in it.

“Yes.” Security replies. “Everything is well, Your Highness.”

Petra chews her bottom lip. She does not want to be called that here on the tongues of would-be tourists. Security dips their head in respect and lets her be on her way. 

Outside the gates is a man holding up a sign with her name on it, as her Daid had told her to expect. She is pleased to see they are very clearly of Brigid, a proud prayer to the flame spirit curls around their chin in striking violet.

“ _ Tiar Fanywn. _ ” They greet her with a voice that fills her with equal parts relief and longing. She will miss speaking her mother tongue so badly. “ _ You know where you are headed _ ?”

They’re holding out a pair of keys to her, she takes them with curiosity. “ _ I do, thank you. _ ” She inspects them, running her thumb along the grooves. Keys are not used in traditional Brigid homes, she has only ever held a few in her lifetime.

“ _ The fridge will be full and the cupboards will be stocked. _ ” They hold a card out for her. “ _If you are having any trouble, you can call this number._ ”

“ _ I will not be requiring help but thank you. _ ”

They do not question her but the card is still held out. “ _ I am afraid Ai Fanwyn was quite adamant about this. _ ” Their eyes wax sympathetic.

“ _ Then I will accept. But do not be expecting me _ .” Petra sighs, finally accepting the card. She tries to catch a glimpse of their skin for any sign of a tattoo hidden under their suit. “ _ I cannot see your markings. From what isle do you hail? _ ”

“ _ Honoured Princess, I am Cait, from the Morlafllan tribe. _ ” Their eyes are bashful but swell with a pride Petra is all too familiar with. “ _ As you know, we-- _ “

“ _ Are home to the best whale tamers in all of Brigid, yes, yes. Your tribe’s pride in the fact is known to the ends of Y Mor. _ ” She laughs as they struggle to contain a blush.  _ “Yours was the first isle I had visited after my birth. Though I was a babe, I swear I can remember as clearly as the sky the moment I first saw a woman and whale burst from the waves together. _ ”

“ _ I would have been about eight at that time. _ ” They tap their chest with their fist. “ _ You honour us, Tiar Fanwyn _ .”

Petra mimics the motion. “ _ You honour yourselves, Cait. Thank you. _ ”

And with that, they must part. Brigid does not have many representatives in other countries, she hopes to see them again regardless. At least her spirits have been lifted a little, she’s not entirely alone here.

Her suitcase is light as she’s only packed the bare essentials, including her carving supplies. She tries and fails to capture a muse as she leaves the airport.

~*~

Enbarr is cold. It’s no winter night in Fearghus, Petra has only ever heard horror stories about those. But Enbarr is certainly not Brigid. There is no warm breeze here, just the occasional lash of wind that whips between the tall buildings and the looming threat of rain.

She pulls her thin shawl over her shoulders, regretting her choice not to travel in more Fódlan appropriate clothing. Perhaps her first agenda will be to shop for something warmer when she wakes up tomorrow. In truth, she dreads the thought.

She spots the apartment complex destined to be her home for the next year as she rounds the corner and barely manages to avoid bumping into a stranger. She is not a fan of these crowds but at least she doesn’t stand out, she can weave between the bodies and for a moment she pretends she is weaving between the trees. 

~*~

It’s not as if her Daid has chosen a particularly run-down complex that seems to groan under her feet, but she’s never trusted elevators, and opts for the stairs. She’s quite high up, not that it bothers her to walk up many flights. But the sleepless night she endured before her departure and the jet lag is catching up to her with every step.

She finds her apartment, fumbles with the keys and enters. It’s spacious, uncomfortably voided. The fridge is full as promised, she’s pleased to see plenty of seafood, including sushi. The cupboards are also stocked. Rice, spice and colourful brands Petra doesn’t recognise.

There’s a sofa in the living room and Petra’s heart swells as she finds a fur blanket draped over the arm. She brings it to her nose and inhales the musky scent. She’s home for a split second and then back in Enbarr when she exhales.

With a sigh, she realizes she must unpack eventually. She drags her suitcase behind her and opens the door.

She hates how bare it all is. There’s nothing of any significance in here and she laments to live in a place she cannot make her own. She places her suitcase at the foot of the bed and unfurls the fur blanket when an envelope falls out of it. It’s marked with the royal crest, the symbol of the Flame Spirit and Petra can’t open it fast enough.

My Little Arrow,

I know your heart, I know you are not pleased with my decision to send you here but here you will have to endure. You will stay in Fódlan for as long as you feel you need to. I can hear your frowning from here, Little Arrow, stop that. You will know when it is time to return but for now, I bid you stay.

Your Nadd and Dayn would despair to see you as you are. I wish I could say to them I raised you a happy child, but you were not happy and I feel I have failed you. You smiled and told me everything was fine, I know. You would not blame me, I know. But I do know that there is a whole in your heart that Brigid cannot heal alone.

Now that you are of a good age, you are free to travel and discover the world beyond our islands. I can only hope that you find something or someone that brings you happiness.

A gray sky will be pierced by the sun. A raging tide will be leading to land.

I love you,

King Elis Macneary 

Petra folds the letter back up, places it on her nightstand and stares up at the ceiling. Her suitcase lays abandoned at the end of her bed.

She breathes, tries to ignore the rising tightness in her throat. She thinks of her Dayn, of his scream when he fell--

She can’t stop it, she coils in on herself and cries herself to sleep.

~*~

On her first day, she unpacks, she eats.

She does not leave the confines of her apartment.

~*~

On the second day, she gets out of bed and goes for a walk around her block. The cold isn’t as bad today and the smell of the city… well, it could be worse, she thinks. To her delight, she catches the scent of street food and decides to indulge in Almyran arayes.

When she gets home, she tries the television. She’s taken in by the documentary channel for hours. She didn’t know lions did not even come from the Kingdom. But then, why is it on their coat of arms? It would be like if Brigid used pheasant feathers instead of peacock ones in their jewellery!

She’s almost lulled to sleep by the narrator’s soft voice until he announces their next programme.

Brigid Sealife.

She can forgive the narrator for pronouncing the odd word wrong, not everyone can roll their r’s after all. She can look past it especially easily when there’s a turtle on screen taking its first steps towards the sea. She loves these moments in real life.

The soundtrack swells but there’s a sinister undertone and Petra, to her dismay, knows why. A gull watches, the camera is almost uncomfortably high-definition as it zooms on its beady eye. 

She’s seen it many times, she’s stopped it many times but Petra can’t do anything here in Enbarr. She watches as the bird dips and carries off its prize without mercy. A shame for the poor turtle but that is the way of nature, even if it did make eight-year old Petra cry uncontrollably. 

Even if it wants to make her cry now.

When she eventually goes to bed, she realizes it could be a long time before she sees the ocean again.

~*~

On her third day, she packs her notepad and her whittling kit and goes into the city to try and make note of the smaller things about it. The bigger monuments such as The Glory of Hraesvelg will always be noticeable, the little things are more important to Petra right now.

Where are the cycle paths? Are there any bumps in the pavement that can trip her up? What stores can she buy basic groceries from? She prays to the spirits that somewhere sells Huall Eel…

At least it’s not as cold today, but she’s thankful for her handmade poncho all the same.

She hears a  _ ding-a-ling! _ as someone walks out of a building that’s settled comfortably between two larger structures.

A library.

Brigid has one on the main isle, aptly named The Library of Brigid. It is vast and incredibly well guarded. Petra remembers slinking through the shelves as a young child, playing hide and seek with her Dayn and giggling because she can see him looking for her over in the cooking section but she’s in the history section!

Nothing is as closely held to her country as its heritage. Every tradition, old or made new, is chronicled there. One would like to know what particular food was popular for the people of Brigid in the 14 th century? One can go to The Library. Want to know how the Brigid Kingdom helped an entire continent find liberation and, in the process, liberate themselves? One can go to The Library.

This library is… quaint by comparison but perhaps it is unfair to compare such things. Knowledge is knowledge, after all, even if it is contained in somewhere as small as this. ‘The Melody of Words’ it’s called. Petra is already endeared to the name; she loves a good tune herself.

She takes a step inside. Curiously, the bell doesn’t go off this time. The smell hits her first, it’s marvellous the way it fills her nostrils like the comfort of a home away from home. It seems to be quiet; Petra can only hear the vague shuffling of pages and the occasional clacking of heels. The shelves are modestly tall, full to the brim with books with spines of all sizes and colours. It reminds her of Brigid tapestry and how vibrant it is, especially when they’re mounted proudly on the walls. The acoustics must be grand in here as well, she grins at her inner-child for wanting to let out a little ‘whoop!’ to test them out.

This will be an excellent place to stay for her Fódlan studies, she decides.

“I’m telling you, sir, to leave!”

Or maybe not.

“But I know you’re her! You look just like her!”

“You’re delusional! Now leave my library!”

Petra is accustomed to dealing with those who try and tread where they don’t belong and wonders if she should help. The amount of times little Petra had sat at the entrance to burial the sites like a young angry Spirit, barking at tourists to go away when they try and get in. No one but Brigid folk can walk among their dead.

“My eyes do not deceive me, you must be her!”

“I don’t even have her eye colour, moron!”

She makes her way to the source of the raised voices, rounding the shelves to find a figure with his palms flat on a desk, attempting to tower over who she assumes to be the irate owner.

Petra’s always had a love for the concept of destiny, the idea that everyone must walk their fated path. The immortal will of her Gods and Spirits, laying out her road before her. She is compelled to walk it, no matter how much it may hurt her feet at times. She would be foolish- no, blasphemous- to try and sully something crafted especially for her, after all.

So, when she lays her eyes upon the rather angry looking woman and watches as she rises to her challenger, Petra wonders at the strange little flutter under her ribs. Like a tide to the moon, she feels compelled to be closer to her.

Her brunette hair is the first thing that catches her eye. It’s bound up in loose bun and caught in a few errant beams of sunlight that filter through the window, Petra thinks of her favourite homemade chocolate. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses are situated on her nose which is currently coiling up as she snarls at the man before her.

“I won’t ask again.” Her voice is deep with anger, yet restrained.

She’s wearing a cream button up shirt, though it’s casually undone at the top two buttons. A loose- very loose- black tie hangs around the collar. Messy, one would think, but the shirt is tucked into her pencil skirt, making it curve around her features. She looks incredibly professional, even in anger.

The man looks sheepish all of a sudden, he runs a hand through his shockingly orange hair.

“I… I could have sworn.” Then he doubles back defiantly, jutting his chin up as if to reclaim a superiority that isn’t his. “No, no, I am sure, you even share her name!”

“A coincidence, I assure you.” The woman looks to have lost all patience. She makes eye contact with Petra- whose heart beats a few paces quicker than normal- and her face softens a tad as she nods apologetically. “Be with you in a moment, sweetheart. This ingrate was just leaving.”

She’s heard the term ‘sweetheart’ before and she ponders why such a term can be used so freely for strangers. Do the people of Fódlan not have clear terms of use for their language? 

“Ingrate?!” The man bristles like a porcupine, looking towards Petra, then back to his victim.

“Do you prefer imbecile?” She shoots back.

Petra bites back a smirk and steps forward. “If you are needing a hand in removing him, I will be glad to be assisting. I am quite proficient in combat arts.” She holds her hand over her heart, a common gesture of sincerity in Brigid.

The woman’s eyebrows perk up in surprise but slowly, she grins. “Thank you but hopefully there’ll be no need.” She shoots the man a vicious glare.

“B-but, Doro—”

“She has been asking you to leave.” Petra interjects his protest. If she’s already tired of him, she can’t imagine how the other woman feels.

His eyes shoot downward, a pout creasing his face. “Fine. I will be going.” Even in defeat, he sounds defiant.

“Good.” The librarian claps her hands. “You’re henceforth banned, Ferdie.”

“How do you know my—”

She waggles her finger at him. “Your obnoxious name is plastered everywhere along with your stupid face, Ferdie. Every time I go out to buy groceries, your posters are everywhere. ‘Vote von Aegir! Vote von Aegir!’ You’re just lucky I won’t go to the press about this.”

At last deflated, he grumbles something under his breath and briskly walks away. His shoulder barges into Petra in his haste and he spins around, body bent down apologetically.

“I am sorry.” He says, appearing genuine.

She watches him go through the window as he reaches up to scratch his head, eyebrows furiously knitted together. He really must have thought he was onto something.

“The nerve of that guy.” A sigh brings all her attention back in the moment.

The librarian has taken her seat back behind the desk and running her hand through her hair, setting a few of its coils free.

“What nerve?” Petra asks, confused by what she assumes is another Fódlan term she doesn’t recognise. Unless his nerves were actually… on show? No, it must be a terminology.

The woman laughs a little but it isn’t at all patronising, which Petra appreciates. “It means he’s a jerk.”

“I have understanding.” Petra purses her lips. “He was quite a uh, jerk.”

“You just can’t win some days.” Her blue eyes crinkle in a small smile.

Blessed be the Spirits, she’s beautiful, is what Petra thinks as she watches her readjust her glasses. The chain gets caught against a ring on her finger and when she pulls her hand away the glasses tip down her nose and she huffs, pushing them back up.

It’s such a mundane little action and yet the tug on Petra’s heart reels into a constriction. She swallows the feeling down, alarmed to feel such a way with a woman she doesn’t know.

The woman produces a sticky notepad from her desk and collects the pen she has clipped to her blouse. She can see her write in perfect cursive ‘Ferdie BANNED,’ pause and then, with a few hard strokes of her pen, she underlines ‘BANNED’ and adds an exclamation mark for good measure. She sticks the note up on her computer monitor that’s already full to the brim with notes and sits back in her chair with another sigh.

“Would you have really kicked him out?” She asks, popping the tip of the pen into her mouth and looking at her while she chews it.

“I had been offering, had I not?”

“You did offer and that was very kind of you.” Her eyes glint with mirth. “How would you have done it? Picked him up over your shoulder?”

“If the pushing came to shoving, yes.” Petra shrugs. “It would have been easy.”

“I’ll bet.” The woman grins. “My knight in shining armour, or in your case, a very cute poncho. So, what can I do for you?”

“I was just passing. Who was he thinking you was…? Were?”

She waves her hand dismissively and swivels in her chair to type away at something. “It doesn’t matter, I share my name and my looks with someone famous is all.”

The conversation lulls. Petra really should find something to read and leave the woman be but…

“What is your name?”

She doesn’t appear to have been heard. “…Hm?”

“Your name?” Petra repeats, feeling a tad embarrassed. “I am not familiar with the famous of Fódlan. I have probably not been hearing about this person he thinks you were. I am merely curious.”

Her typing slows, then stops, and she chews her bottom lip as if in two minds. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know?” She offers her a suspicious glance.

“Oh! I am aware of that phrase. Yes, nothing will be killing me. I would just be liking to know your name.”

_ And perhaps, your friendship,  _ she silently pleas. 

“…Dorothea Arnault.” The woman says, not looking away from the screen.

Petra doesn’t need to think on it. “I have not been hearing of that name in my twenty-two years.”

Dorothea’s attention is on her now, an excited grin on her face. “No one knows her in Brigid-? Sorry, I’m assuming you’re from there, I shouldn’t do that.”

“It is no worry, my home is Brigid. I am…” She hesitates.

It sure would be nice if no one knows. As full of pride as she is, her status as a princess shouldn’t matter here anymore than it matters in Brigid. Which- compared to how other countries treat their monarchies as deities- is humble. Yet the risk still stands, she doesn’t want Dorothea to treat her any differently than she would treat any other non-royal.

“I am just living here for some time.”

“Ah, well then.” Dorothea sing-songs, placing her chin on her entwined fingers. “Tit for tat, come on.”

Petra can feel how deep her brows furrow. “Tit…?”

Dorothea’s smile doesn’t falter. “Your name in exchange for mine, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah, I am seeing.” She doesn’t entirely see where tits come into a simple exchange, but still she clears her throat and bows. “I am named Petra Macneary, it is a pleasure to be meeting you.”

“Petra.” Dorothea says slowly and hums, tucking the pen back behind her ear… even though she has just chewed at it. Petra decides not to comment. “And what brings you ‘just passing’ by here?”

“I am studying in Enbarr. I think it is important for me to know about this place, we are neighbouring countries after all.” She leaves out the part where she’s here on her Daid’s insistence.

“I couldn’t agree more.” Dorothea grins, entwining her fingers across the desk. Petra notes the slenderness of them. “Can I help you find something in particular?”

Petra fiddles with the straps of her satchel, racking her brain for something, anything.

_ Learn the world. _

She sighs. “In truth, Miss Arnault, I am not knowing where to begin.”

“’Miss Arnault?’” Dorothea giggles. “I like that. Well, you’ve come to the right place. I will do my best to help you get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, tell me your favourite line~
> 
> Chapter 2 is ready to go tomorrow but I can't say the same for chapter 3 haha, I'm a slow writer, I'm afraid and have a nasty habit of editing editing editing instead of actually writing writing writing.
> 
> Anyway, check out @DoroPetraWeek on twitter! And if the week is up by the time you're reading this, check us out anyway because we'll always be rting content of the two best gals there~


	2. Don't Look Me Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So far, yes.” Petra sighs. “I am not going to be presuming all will be easy in my time here. We have a saying in Brigid… I have never had to say it in the Fódlan language before but it is this. Before a flower blooms, soil must be cultivated, roots must grow and sunlight must shine. This is the way of things.”

Dorothea takes her first to the history section and there’s certainly plenty of it. Petra knows a decent amount of Fódlan history, having studied in her youth. It’s good to know the past of the country you’ll one day be subjected to parlaying with on political terms. Petra hopes those days are a long way away, she is still young and King Elis is still strong.

“Ah, there it is.” Dorothea plucks a modestly thick book from the shelf and turns it to inspect the blurb. “How about ‘The Eagle that Conquered?’” She adds a whimsical flourish to her voice and holds it out for Petra.

“I will take it. I am assuming it is regarding the Empire and its past? I am knowing of the twin-eagle symbol.” She takes it from her while spying her acutely manicured nails. Short nails, she notices.

“That it is.” Dorothea chimes. “A riveting read. So I’ve heard from a friend, anyway. It’s all too grim for me personally.” 

Petra fakes a scandalous gasp. “You mean you have not been reading every single book in your own library? That is being a shame on you, Miss Arnault.”

Dorothea’s abrupt laughter is high and musical, she covers her mouth with her hand to try and stifle it. Petra feels a small surge of pride watching her.

“Quite the witty one, Miss Macneary.” Dorothea says when she recovers.

Petra feels a sudden heat flush her cheeks. “Please, do not be calling me that, Petra will be sufficing.”

She can’t explain why it makes her blush so, she blames it on the fact that only her Nadd called her ‘Miss Macneary’ when she was in very deep trouble. Usually Petra would have been caught trying to dive for coral she could use to make jewellery, rough tide be dammed to the Flame Spirit. That made her Nadd and Dayn very cross indeed.

“I would say you insist on calling me ‘Dorothea’ in return but I kind of like ‘Miss Arnault.’” Dorothea sighs with a wistfulness that intrigues Petra.

“As you are wanting, Miss Arnault. I can be calling you by whatever you wish.”

Dorothea lays a hand on the book Petra is holding and strokes the raised grooves on the cover illustration. “Careful, I might ask you to call me ‘princess.’” Her wink makes Petra’s heart stammer but more than anything, it makes her smile.

“Princess Dorothea.” Petra tries it on her tongue. It makes her smile wider. “It is suiting you.”

“Oh my.” Dorothea’s cheeks redden just enough for Petra’s keen eye to notice. She has claimed a small victory, it seems. “Maybe ‘Miss Arnault’ will do for now.”

She withdraws her hand and Petra thinks she feels a slight tug on her soul as she does so. It’s exhilarating, yet not quite unfamiliar, the way Dorothea is making her feel.

“Where can I be reading?”

Dorothea claps her hands together and rubs them, her bracelet jingles with the motion. She leans forward and whispers. “I’ll let you in on a secret, the chairs behind the romance novels are the cosiest.” She points. “Down there, head left.”

“My gratitude.” Petra bows and Dorothea leaves her with her own little half-bow.

Petra tries not to watch her walk off, feeling that once Dorothea was out of sight, she’d be gone from her life. What a bizarre fear. She shrugs it off, chalking it up to simply the thrill of making a new friend.

She sets off for her destination, the supposed cosiest chairs in The Melody of Words. (Petra will have to ask later if Dorothea came up with that name.) She is right, they certainly are comfortable as Petra lays the book out on the table in front of her. Brigid interiors don’t have plush cushions on their seats but this is a cultural difference she doesn’t mind in the slightest. She opens the book and begins The Eagle that Conquered.

~*~ 

Whatever Dorothea had heard about this book, about how ‘riveting’ it is, she has heard wrong. Every sentence is unnecessarily long and full of far too many commas. How many adjectives can be used to describe a banner? The Eagle that Conquered tries to answer that question.

_The honourable Empire, so wonderfully vast, so powerful, so utterly splendiforious—_

Even Petra is certain that is not even a word in any language. She checks the author- ‘Ludwig von Aegir’ and purses her lips at the coincidence. Given the demeanour she had witnessed of Ferdie, maybe he would say such a thing, perhaps he is related to this full-tongued fool.

She closes the book with a frustrated huff. Her usual studious nature has been drained, like a puddle in the sun, but at least she’s gotten through a decent chunk of it. She tries to do some basic recall without looking at her notes.

The Ardestian Empire. Founded over three-thousand years ago by… by… Fódlan names are so strange… Willheim von Hraesvelg! Yes, the von Hreasvelg name has survived to this day. In fact, the famed Edelgard von Hreasvelg is due to take up the role of Emperor any day now.

Petra has only met Edelgard once, when she was ten and her family had visited to offer ‘official condolences.’ She doesn’t remember much but she suspects they’ll meet again once she’s become Emperor. Petra is surprised that Enbarr still uses such a title for what can basically be described as the presidential roles seen in Dagda and the Alliance. Mind you, The Kingdom still has its Prince as well.

And Brigid still has its Princess.

She feels a prickling sensation, an anxiety that makes her stomach drop. She reaches into her satchel for her whittling kit and prays to the Spirits that Dorothea won’t mind. She holds the wooden block in hand, comforted by its weight. It’s a little chilly with just a plaid shirt on underneath but she has the decency to take off her poncho out and lay it on the table to catch any flakes as she starts whittling away.

She forms a little bird in her mind, not a Brigid peacock, but a humble hummingbird. She certainly won’t finish it while she’s in here but the act of starting it distracts her mind long enough for it to settle. So much so that she doesn’t hear Dorothea approach.

“Not a sight I thought I’d see.” Comes her song of a voice. Petra startles and she very nearly carves into her thumb by mistake. Dorothea is very quickly in front of her, remorse in her eyes. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It is…” The panic threatens to well inside Petra but she manages to swallow it down and smile shakily up at the librarian. “It is being okay.”

Dorothea frowns a little and takes a seat next to her, scooting the chair a bit closer. “You sure?”

Petra nods, her nerves still a little on edge. It is unbecoming of a hunter to be snuck up on, let alone the future Queen.

Dorothea points to her work before she can lament further. “What’s that?”

Her swirling mind calms as she’s forced to concentrate on the object.

“Brigid carving. You see, every island is having a particular trait for which it is being known for.” She thumbs the wood, some of its flakes fall onto her poncho. “Things like sports and entertainment and embroidery. But carving technique is known throughout the whole archipelago, it is taught as soon as one is able to be holding the tools. They are not holding any one significance in our culture; they are meaning different things to different people.” 

“So, special to some but not to others?” Dorothea tilts her head inquisitively. “I take it they’re special to you?”

Petra nods. “My Nadd-- ah, mother-- had great fondness of them, she had lots of little ones and would sometimes be spending months on one particular piece.”

“That’s very sweet, I’m sure she’s happy to know you’re carrying on with them.” 

“Thank you, her soul lies with the Spirits now but I know she is watching me, my father is too.” It’s what they are seeing, is what concerns Petra. Are they proud?

Dorothea’s hand comes on top of her own and gently squeezes. They’re not as soft as Petra imagined, but comforting all the same. “I like to think that about my mother sometimes, too.” And then, her hand is gone, leaving Petra’s oddly cold. “What else can you carve?”

“A lot of animals. Oh, I hope you are not minding I am carving here, my deepest apologising-“ She pauses, stopping herself from biting her tongue. “Apologies.”

Dorothea waves her hand. “Don’t worry about it, some people have done far worse things thinking I wouldn’t notice.”

“I am hoping people are not doing too terrible things in here.” Petra frowns.

“Mostly making out behind the shelves.” Dorothea shrugs, then laughs. “I had to chase one mostly nude couple out of here with a copy of the Sreng Treaties once.”

Petra puffs out a giggle at the image. “I can be seeing that.”

In the space between talking, she makes another carve. The wood curls under the tool, always a satisfying watch.

“I take it you’re not enjoying the book?” Dorothea asks.

“It has good information.” Petra replies, trying not to let the disappointment creep into her voice, feeling as if she would in turn disappoint Dorothea. “But it is… well… I can read the Fódlan language very well but this,” she eyes the offending book, “it is being rather frustrating.”

Dorothea opens it for herself, flicking through a random number of pages and settling somewhere in the middle. Petra watches as her face grows steadily more irritated, her eyes flickering over the words with haste.

“Ugh.” Is all she says.

“’Ugh’ indeed.” Petra sighs. “I am glad I am not being alone.”

Dorothea pushes the book to one side and props her chin up on her hand. “Sorry, I’ll try and find something better for you next time. Unless you’re going to sit here and carve away instead of reading?”

Petra winces. “You are sure you are not minding?”

“Honestly, Petra, I don’t mind at all.” Her face suddenly turns darkly serious. “But if I see just one speck of wood left over when you’re done, I’m banning you.”

Petra halts, regretting almost every move she had made up until this point. She only breathes when Dorothea flashes her a wink.

“Miss Arnault! Do not be frightening me!” She chastises but the infectious smirk on Dorothea reaches her. “I was believing you. You are quite the actress.”

“Many have said so.” Dorothea says airily, pretending to flick something off her shoulder. “Acting aside, please make sure you clean up everything. Hoovering isn’t my favourite activity.”

“Of course, Miss Arnault, I will be the most careful.”

Her smile leaves Petra feeling warm, she feels so blessed to have made a connection so early into her time in Fódlan. She thinks of, perhaps, offering her number, goes as far as to fish her phone out of her bag. When she sees the time displayed on it, she gasps.

“Ten? It is so late!”

Dorothea giggles. “That’s what I was coming to tell you, I’m closing up.”

“My apologies, I did not mean to be occupying your library for so long.”

“Don’t be silly, you’ve been a model reader.” Dorothea reaches for her carving. “May I take a look?”

“Oh, um, yes.” Petra puts it in Dorothea's hand and watches as she inspects it. Only one wing has formed so far, lacking any sort of definition but it isn’t too hard to guess it’s a wing, Petra hopes. “It is going to be a hummingbird.”

“Mm, I can tell it’s going to be very cute.” Dorothea hands it back to her. “You look like the type to pay attention to details.”

“Thank you, I am taking great pride in them.” Petra licks her lips, wondering if her question is going to backfire. “Is that attention to detail type being nice-looking?”

Dorothea’s eyelids lower a little bit as she grins. “Very nice-looking.” As soon as the words leave her lips, she seems to catch herself and looks down at the floor, blushing. Her glasses slip down her nose and when she looks back up, her blue eyes seem to blaze into Petra but it’s strange.

Petra thinks of looking into a lake. Clear and blue, but something is shimmering under the waters. She can’t help but think that some version of Dorothea is trying to swim to the surface. A strange thought about a practical stranger but Petra’s always had good instincts.

“Thank you, you are also very nice-looking.” She attempts lamely, a heat in her cheeks. She wants to tell her that if this was her mother-tongue, she’d be far more witty. Or not, actually, she hasn’t had all that much practice in flirting, as much as she enjoys it. “I will be leaving now. Thank you, Miss Arnault, your help was very pleasant.”

“You’re welcome, Petra.” Dorothea stands and picks up the discarded book. “Do you want to take this out?”

“No need, I will be returning tomorrow. If you are not minding.” Petra should really explore the city more tomorrow but as she stands and regards Dorothea’s taller form, she thinks maybe not.

“I don’t mind.” Dorothea folds her arms over the book and winks. “With how you were willing to handle Ferdie today, maybe I can hire you as my bouncer.”

Petra bounces on her toes.

Dorothea giggles. “It means—”

“I am knowing.” Petra grins coyly. “I was telling a joke.”

“And you say I’m the actress.” Dorothea tucks her hair behind her ear. “Let me put this behind my desk so you can pick it up tomorrow.”

“I would be liking that.”

Petra puts away her whittling kit and gathers as much wood residue as she can into her palm and drops them into the nearest bin. She slips her poncho back on and picks up her little project, flipping it over in her hand as Dorothea returns.

"How long have you been here in Ardestia for?” The librarian asks, pushing the chairs back under the tables. Petra does the same.

“Four days, including the day I arrived.”

"Wow. I’ve never left this country, let alone lived somewhere else. I hope you’re settling in okay.”

“So far, yes.” Petra sighs. “I am not going to be presuming all will be easy in my time here. We have a saying in Brigid… I have never had to say it in the Fódlan language before but it is this. Before a flower blooms, soil must be cultivated, roots must grow and sunlight must shine. This is the way of things.”

“Put hard work into pretty things.” Dorothea nods in approval. “A wise notion, I can relate.”

Petra grins before the opportunity. “Because you are being very pretty?”

“N-not me.” Dorothea blushes, it’s a lovely look. “The library.”

Maybe Petra’s not as bad at flirting as she thought she was.

When they’ve finished tidying up, Dorothea slips on a coat, takes some keys and pauses before the door. The lights of the library are off and she’s only illuminated by the passing neon of cars and signs. There are no such sights in Brigid, the islands are not big enough to require roads and nobody likes pollution from motor vehicles. 

The colours streak gorgeously over Dorothea’s pale skin as she frowns softly at the outside world. “It can be dangerous at night. Do you live far?” She asks.

Petra takes a second to find her voice. “No but please do not be worrying, I am capable of defending myself. I would be happy to walk you home, if you are wanting.”

“Oh, it’s alright. I can defend myself too.” She very clearly means it and Petra can honestly see it. One of the first lessons for a hunter is to never underestimate the prey, after all. “More capable of violence than I want to be but hey, that’s the world we live in.” 

Petra considers this. Brigid is not perfect by any stretch of the imagination but it is safe enough for one to feel comfortable walking alone at night. Petra only trains in combat because it’s good fitness (and a good show) for a young princess. That and she wants to be the archipelago’s brawling champion by the time she’s thirty.

“Please, be taking my phone number. I would like to be knowing you are home safely.” Petra’s not the fondest of phones, she dislikes how they invite idleness, but she’ll make an exception in this case. 

Dorothea hums with a sly glint in her eye. “My knight in shining armour, offering me her phone number? Quite forward, aren’t we?”

“If forward is not a direction you are minding.” Petra taps her chest with her fist, not that Dorothea is likely to understand the gesture but still, it’s important. “I am feeling a small fire between us and I would like to be stoking it, so that we may be friends.”

She’d like to add ‘and perhaps more than that.’ But she doesn’t want to push it, not when this is all quite new.

Dorothea pauses for a fraction of a second, something unreadable passing over her expression. Petra wonders if she has said something wrong, considers apologising.

“You know what Petra?” Dorothea’s smile is small, but it crinkles around her eyes. “I feel the fire too.”

“Very good.” Petra says, trying not to sound too relieved.

They exchange numbers and send a little test.

Dorothea Arnault

_Hello._

_Hey nice-looking x ;)_

Petra laughs.

“I see it worked then.” Dorothea hums smugly and opens the door for her.

“Yes, it worked. I-!“ The chill of the night air bombards Petra and she shivers, trying to tuck herself further into her poncho. “ _Ni uy ar rharllen!_ ” She exclaims, watching her breath form in the air.

“I may not know Brigid but, yes, it’s quite cold tonight.” Dorothea rubs her hands together. “Right, I have to get going but… see you tomorrow?”

“Yes.” Petra returns her hopeful gaze. “You will be seeing me tomorrow.”

“Good.” Dorothea turns to go but she stops half-turned, face scrunching up for a moment. “Petra?”

“Yes, Miss Arnault?”

“Please don’t search up my name.” Her voice is small and pleading, nothing like the confident woman she had been before. “I- I know it sounds dumb but- Oh, who am I kidding, I can’t stop you from being curious. I’m sorry.”

Petra frowns. “I was not going to be looking, you are the only Dorothea Arnault I have interest in knowing.”

Dorothea makes a sound like a laugh and a sigh mixed together, full of relief. “Thank goodness.” She says, more to herself than Petra. She straightens up and clears her throat, her confidence apparently returning. “Excellent. Goodbye for now, dear.”

And then she does go and Petra is left with a flutter in her heart she’s not sure what to do with. It’s all she can feel in her dream of a walk back to her apartment. It doesn’t settle even when she’s in her pyjamas and in bed. 

She’s lying on her back, phone in front of her face and waiting for Dorothea’s text. Should she message her first to let her know she got back safely? Her phone’s sudden buzz answers for her and the surprise makes her drop it.

“Ow.” She grumbles, her nose now sore but the pain is quickly forgotten as she reads.

_Dorothea Arnault_

_Home safe and sound x_

_I am relieved to hear that. Was your walk home nice?_

_You’re very sweet. It wasn’t too bad, thank you x_

_Good._

_What is the ‘x’ meaning at the end of your messages?_

_Is your keyboard broken?_

…

Petra waits as the ellipses indicating her typing pop in and out, in and out. She must be typing a long message. 

_Yeah it was broken. Fixed now though!_

Or not.

_Good._

_What time do you open tomorrow?_

_8am_

_Then I will see you then. If that is okay?_

_That’s very okay! I respect early risers_

_:(_

_That is wrong._

_:)*_

_Haha see you tomorrow :( :)_

_Goodnight, Miss Arnault._

_Night Petra x_

_Ah, stupid keyboard broke again, oh well x_

Petra stares at the screen for a moment. She almost can’t believe how naturally her new-found friendship has come about, it almost doesn’t feel real. She should message her Daid soon, he will be pleased to know.

Her parents would have been pleased to know as well. For the first time in a while, the thought of her parents watching her fills her with comfort. A wavering sort of comfort, like an old raft that’s probably not as steady on the waves as it ought to be but there nonetheless.

She sets her alarm for six-thirty and finds herself eager to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 I went with pride!
> 
> Now chapter 3 is not done for tomorrow, I'm busy running the twitter And I've got work but here's hoping I won't fall too behind. I can at least promise I know where I'm going! As ever, what was your favourite part~?


	3. Aria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's not that I'm shy..." Dorothea says quietly. Petra sees her swallow, sees the red in her cheeks. "I just like to know when I have an audience."

Petra takes extra care with her braids today, even if no one will know that this particular fashion is reserved for royalty. It’s a blessing for her time in Fódlan and there’s a part of her that’s really enjoying the sensation of being an unknown. Everyone knows her in Brigid, not that she minds, but Brigid is small. The city of Enbarr alone probably has more people contained within it than the entirety of the archipelago.

She imagines, very briefly, a scenario in which she would be recognised on the streets and the swarm that would rush towards her as people often flocked to her in Brigid. She shivers, spitting her toothpaste into the sink.

The air is colder still today, it snaps at her arms as she cracks open the window for some fresh air. Another poncho day it seems. She’ll have to shop at some point, maybe today if she takes a study break.

The thought of going into Melody again, of seeing Dorothea, has her steps feeling lighter. She catches her wobbly reflection on the fridge as she goes for some orange juice, she’s grinning like a fool. She doesn’t stop herself; she’s allowed to be excited.

Though Enbarr is apparently busier on a Friday, she’s able to weave through the crowds quite easily. It’s a fifteen-minute walk and she only slows her pace a little to better observe her surroundings. As Dorothea had said so, there was an animated display with Ferdie’s face plastered on it. He’s grinning, teeth and all. His long hair is tied back into a ponytail, suit pressed impeccably.

_For a prime minster for all! Vote von Aegir!_

Arrogant, Petra thinks. But then again, she is not from Fódlan and from what she has studied, their politics all seem very individualistic. _I_ will do this for you! _I_ will accomplish this! Where was the honour? The sense of community?

Brigid has its monarchy, but that right is earned, a leader is not a leader if the people don’t trust them. Of course, the right to leadership can be contested, as her own family had done hundreds of years ago. They had disposed of the last monarchy, who the people had deemed them unfit when they delved too greedily into the lands, plundered it instead of nurtured it. She takes pride in that heritage and the fact that the Macneary’s have remained beloved for generations since.

She feels a sudden bolster of pride. She rides on the high of that confidence all the way to Melody.

As she opens the door, the bell fails to go off like last time and the hum of the city hushes as it closes again. Dorothea must have only just unlocked the door; Petra appears to be the only person here and there’s hardly a sound… Ah, wait, maybe not...

Petra cranes her head, listening closer. Singing? Dorothea seems like the type, perhaps she has a radio on. But then, there’s a distinct echo, it had to be coming from the woman herself. Petra tiptoes closer to the source. It’s rude to sneak but she wants to hear without disrupting her.

When hunting, it’s best not to alert your prey by any means necessary. Be mindful of snapping twigs, be wary of how your scent is being carried by the wind, there are many elements that can ruin a hunt. A prey animal can and will snap into alertness at the slightest disturbance. If one raises its head, eyes wide and searching, it is even more important to remain still above all else. One twitch and your hunt is over.

Petra has always been a master at this and so, employs her practice as she watches Dorothea sing away. Her voice is high but by no means shrill, it is controlled, melodic, captivating even. Petra feels that strange sensation in her heart again, as if she’s heard it before.

She closes her eyes to better listen, her voice is... well, it's gorgeous! She doesn't recognise the words, it doesn't even sound Fódlan. But the way she sings, it is more of a performance than a straightforward song- Theatrics maybe? Petra peeks around the corner of the shelf she’s hidden behind to observe. Dorothea is moving, her arms stretch out, her head tilts back and then she grins wildly as she swoops down to pick a book off the floor, accenting it with a dramatic low-to-high note.

Petra swallows, her hunter's focus threatening to waver when Dorothea twirls, her deep red dress flourishing with the movement. Luckily, the librarian’s eyes are closed, lost in the moment and Petra remains unseen. She thinks she should let her presence be known by now, but she’s far too captivated.

It had started off as a hopeful sort of tune. Plucky, Petra would have said- that has always been one of her favourite Fódlan words. Dorothea seemed happy to be singing it, but her voice was gradually slipping into a considerably more minor tone. Her movements grew slower and her expression morphs into the very essence of heartache.

Petra’s mouth hangs open, Dorothea’s voice fills her as if it were her heartbeat.

The song crescendos as she plucks more books from the shelf, one by one, note by note, and carries them all in one arm. And then, at the climax, she stills, voice quiet and she looks to at the books cradled in her arm like a mother to her child. A sad, sad end. Her voice fades and there’s a very clear waver, though not an ugly sound one might hear from an untrained voice but a quiver that shoots a chill down Petra’s spine.

She wishes there was a word in her own language to describe how she feels in this moment. Maybe there was a word in Fódlan that can accurately describe the way her heart _thuds_ as if she had just run an island lap. She doubts it.

She turns back round the corner to hide herself better, hand on her chest and willing her body to settle. She should make herself known now, maybe if she snuck back to the entrance…? Perhaps that’s too silly, she should just make herself known.

She straightens herself (it doesn’t do much to slow her heart) and rounds the shelf. Dorothea still looks despondently at her books as she approaches.

"Hello, Miss Arnault." She says as innocently as she can manage.

Dorothea yelps and the books drop to the floor with a heavy noise. Dorothea hurriedly descends after them.

"Petra!" She flusters breathlessly. "I didn't see you there! That's very rude, you know."

Guilt stabs at Petra, perhaps she should have gone with her original plan.

"Please be taking my apologies, I was not being here for very long. If that is consoling you." Petra follows her down, picking up the books with her.

“Oh, you heard?”

“Yes. Please be having my many apologies.”

"It's fine, it's fine." Dorothea sighs. "I really need to get that bell fixed so I could have heard you coming."

"Would you have stopped singing?" Petra asks, picking up the last book and stacking it up on the one in her arms.

"Yes." Dorothea mutters as she's seemingly looking for one remaining book.

"That is a shame."

Petra notices it right by Dorothea's knee, she reaches for it. Dorothea has apparently noticed it too, as she reaches for it within the same moment. Petra's hand brushes over hers and they freeze. Petra feels struck by the sudden intensity, especially how, once again, Dorothea's strange, strange blue eyes draw her in.

A beat of silence before Petra speaks again.

"There is no need to be shy."

"It's not that I'm shy..." Dorothea says quietly. Petra sees her swallow, sees the red in her cheeks. "I just like to know when I have an audience."

Petra risks a glance at their hands. Her own is calloused from years of wood work and bow-hunting. Dorothea's hand is slender but she notices a curious crater-like scar on her knuckle.

“That is understandable. I will make myself known earlier next time.” She grins after a moment, daring to run her thumb over Dorothea’s soft skin. “You have much beauty in your voice, as well as your looks.”

Dorothea takes her hand back with a sudden force, a look of incredulous fury on her face.

“You looked my name up online, didn’t you?” There’s the anger that Petra had seen when she first laid eyes on her, but her voice betrays a real hurt that Petra is eager to soothe.

“Miss Arnault.” She retreats her own hand and places it on her heart. “I am promising, I was not looking up your name.”

“Likely.” Dorothea glowers cynically. “Everyone does it, they can’t resist.”

“Please, Miss Arnault.” Petra tries again earnestly. “I was only saying what I am thinking, please, have my most sin…” She hesitates, the weight of the moment sitting heavy on her tongue. “Sin…”

“Sincere?” Dorothea supplies but Petra has her head bowed, she cannot see if she looks any less angry.

“My sincere apologising…No…” _Hyn siaran mallowch!_ “ _Apologies._ ”

This is unbecoming, Petra must look her in the eyes, that is how the people of Fódlan act when apologising. She drags her eyes from the ground but Dorothea is looking away. She’s chewing her bottom lip and wringing her hands, Petra contemplates apologising once more in the rather heady silence.

Dorothea’s sigh seems to deflate her.

"No, I'm sorry, Petra." A lock of her hair tumbles past her ear, she doesn’t bother to tuck it back. "I let my insecurities get the better of me and accused you of going back on your word. That... makes me a bit of a jerk.”

"Miss Arnault, you are not being a jerk. I had been overstepping the line."

Dorothea chuckles at that, her usual warmth coming back into her expression. "I don't think you were. You think I’m a beauty, huh?”

Petra nods, very serious. “Very much so.”

“That’s the quite the compliment coming from you, gorgeous.” Dorothea smiles as if their budding friendship hadn’t nearly ended before it really took off. “But if you still feel bad, you can make up for it by helping me put these back in alphabetical order?"

"Of course, I will be doing that for you." Petra stands, offering Dorothea help up. Dorothea blinks up at her, a pleasant coral tint on her cheeks as she takes her hand to pull herself up.

"Thank you and again, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so mean." She squeezes Petra's hand once before letting go.

"You were not mean. And I am sorry for making you feel your insecurity." Petra tries not to let the sheer relief she feels colour her voice too much.

She wants to ask more, wants to know what can possibly trigger such a reaction. At this point, Petra can tell it goes beyond Dorothea being fed up with sharing a likeness. This famous Dorothea Arnault must be a horrid individual for her to not want to be associated so strongly. But she doesn’t ask, doesn’t want to make her upset again.

"If we keep saying sorry, we'll go around in circles." Dorothea lays the books out on the table. "Okay, stick those up there for me. Someone had a whale of a time rearranging all my hard work yesterday. Oh, speaking of, I put the book you were reading last night on the same table you were sitting at so you can pick up where you left off."

“My gratitude, that is most thoughtful.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Petra inspects the covers as she puts them back in order. All of them seem to be related to music, which makes sense, of course, that is the section they’re standing in.

“I am having great curiosity about these.” Petra confesses, holding one of the books in hand. The cover is an elegant painting, to be sure. Some grand singer belting her heart out while adorned in very Fódlan-like garbs. They really did seem to like their frills. “I have awareness of popular Fódlan music but this is not of the current era, I think.”

“Who have you picked up?” Dorothea says, and Petra is aware that she is quite close behind, borderline leaning over her. A heat builds at the back of Petra’s neck. “Oh, The Divine Songstress! Let me just…” She gently plucks the book from Petra’s hands and gasps.

“I _love_ this edition! It contains extracts from her diary and sketches that do more for her image than any stuffy painting ever did.”

Petra turns and finds herself effectively backed into the shelves from Dorothea’s proximity. Not that she minds it too much. Dorothea herself looks as if the stars are sparking in her eyes.

“Did she have talent?” Petra doesn’t even need to ask; she can tell what Dorothea thinks but to see the way her eyebrows shoot up and how the wide smile grows on her face is worth it.

“More than that! She worked very hard to get where she was and… oh, I just love her.” Dorothea breaks herself off, opening the book and tracing the pages with her fingers, utmost reverence in her eyes. "She was so beautiful, Petra. I discovered her when I was ten and… well, that part doesn’t matter. Is it so strange that I adore a woman who was born a hundred years ago?"

Petra shakes her head. "I am not thinking so. Show me the page, I am liking how enthusiastic you are getting."

"Oh, hush, you. It’s not every day I can gush about this." Dorothea chides playfully, turning the book to Petra. "See here, this is a sketch of her as drawn by her lover and eventual wife."

"Ah." Petra accidentally says aloud. It’s not that she _didn’t_ think Dorothea is into women given their tentative flirtations, but the vague confirmation is nice. Sapphics are drawn to each other, indirectly or otherwise.

She takes the book from Dorothea and takes a look. Indeed, the sketches are beautiful, faded a little by age but the serene expression of a sleeping woman is certainly a far more intimate representation than the grand songstress on the cover. A broad but simple signature is tucked away in the corner of the page along with a little caption.

_Manuela, as lovingly rendered by her lover, Byleth._

"She is pretty." Petra says, but it doesn't quite capture how she feels looking at it. Art is prone to moving her, not more so than music. But still, her heart stirs a little as she imagines the circumstances that lead to such art. “Are you having any of her music to listen to?”

“Well…” Dorothea sighs as her brows pinch together. “Covers of her songs, yes.”

“You have not been hearing her voice?” Petra asks, confused. “I suppose it is making sense, if she was from a long time ago.”

“Actually, there are a few tracks out there but since there was no way to record music easily in those days, they’re very rare. People put them up online but it’s taken down under copyright absurdly quickly.” Her face turns more severe. “I only get to hear her twice a year, if I’m lucky”

Petra feels her heart pang in sympathy. “That is being a great shame.”

“You’re telling me. They take the music down online, then charge absolute bank to buy it. Ridiculous.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, her glasses bobbing with the movement. “People who _do_ have the privilege of owning her songs put them up on online auctions for even worse prices!”

“That is also a great shame. The music of my homeland is usually being live and we are always free to record them. My people are not valuing money.”

“Really?” Dorothea cocks her head to the side, an intrigued glint in her blue gaze. “Not even the royal family?”

“Yes, they are having lots but that is to mostly deal with foreign relations.” Relations she’s all too aware of. She’d sat at her Daid’s political meetings from time to time and it could be headache inducing listening to how much money was involved. She’s never been fond of math, let alone material wealth. “Our coins were not being made until a few hundred years back.”

“Interesting.” The curious glint in Dorothea's eyes sparkles more. "Free music sounds like heaven to me."

"There is being more than that." Petra perks up, eager. "Brigid has many more good-things, like our food!”

"I'd love to know more, Petra." Dorothea says politely, and hands her The Divine Songstress with a wink. "I need to finish setting up though, and I'm afraid I've kept you from your dutiful studying."

"I am not minding." Petra grins up at her. “I am loving to be talking about my home and I would be loving to hear more about your experience with Fódlan too. It would be helping my studies greatly. Ah, what was it that you were saying before, tat for tit…?”

Dorothea laughs, and Petra’s finding out it’s one of her favourite sounds. "Okay, tat for tit. Until then, Petra."

"Yes, indeed, Miss Arnault."

Dorothea waves and disappears around the corner. Distantly, Petra hears her welcome a customer. The Divine Songstress weighs heavier in her hand and Manuela looks up at her with an unnervingly knowing gaze for a book cover.

"You will have to be waiting." Petra says to her and goes to sit at her table from the previous night.

The Eagle That Conquered has a much less pleasant cover with its vaguely smug vibes and, quite frankly, obtuse title. Alas, Petra has always been a studious woman and not one for backing out of challenges, no matter how poorly written.

Notes, out. Book, open. Study, begins.

~*~

Three hours have passed before she knows it. Her notes are stacked neatly in a pile and the book is nearing its final chapter. And thank the spirits for that, even Petra has her limits. At least now she can confidently say she's well equipped with the knowledge of Enbarr's history, as uncomfortable as it made her at times to read about the many conflicts with Dagda and Brigid alike.

Those days are long since past, at least.

Petra's stomach rumbles so loudly she worries that other library patrons might hear.

It's gotten busy in the time she's spent studying. Well, as busy as a small library could be. Even if they were appropriately hushed, there seemed to be footsteps echoing in every corner of the building. Still quiet but a crumb dropping would seem loud in here. Petra wonders if Dorothea works here by herself all the time or if she has other helpers.

A job might not be a bad thing, Petra thinks. She doesn't need the money but she can’t stand boredom and she’s acutely aware that the ‘newness’ of Enbarr will eventually fade and the fatigue will sink its claws deep.

Her stomach rumbles once again. Perhaps it's time to make use of the money and head to a street vendor. She packs her notes and places the book back on the shelf. Would Dorothea like some lunch too? She thinks that maybe she should ask, what’s the harm?

But Dorothea is busy, there's a small queue of people lined up by her desk. No matter, she'll wait.

"Yes, of course I can order that for you, sweetheart." She hears Dorothea say politely.

There was 'sweetheart' again. Strange.

"Oh, thank you."

As the person leaves out the door- oh, the bell jingled this time- Petra steps forward in the queue and as Dorothea hands someone their book, they catch each other’s eye. Petra raises her hand and flexes her fingers, not as boisterous as a typical Brigid gesture of waving but still. Dorothea mimics the wave, a gentle smile on her face.

Petra blushes a little, more so when the person in front turns back to her with a raised brow. Thankfully, they turn back again without a word and when it's their turn at the front of the queue, their request is simple and Dorothea has the book they want within seconds.

There's no one behind Petra, thank the Spirits.

"Petra, dear." Dorothea places her chin on her hands as she approaches. "Are you leaving?"

"For lunch, yes." Petra reaches into her bag and pulls her notepad back out. "Would you like for me to be getting you something? Or have you already been having food?"

Dorothea looks at her, a genuine flash of surprise in her eyes before she smiles.

"I haven't eaten since breakfast but I'm alright." She says. "Thank you for asking, that's very kind of you."

"Are you being sure? I would not like for you to be going hungry, it is not good for you."

Dorothea looks down as she huffs out a small chuckle. "I'm used to going a little hungry, Petra." She looks up again with a strange edge behind the humour in her eyes. "I run this place on my own, I don’t get many chances for a break.”

"That is seeming unhealthy, Miss Arnault, forgive me for saying it."

"I might forgive you..." Dorothea pouts and goes to get something from a drawer. She pulls out a couple of coins and holds them out to Petra. "If you buy me a tub of strawberry ice cream from the vendor down the street. Small, please."

"If that is what it is taking for your forgiveness, then I will be doing it right now." Petra gently pushes her hand away. "With my own money, it is the least I can be doing. Please be giving me the name of the vendor."

“Petra, no-“ Dorothea begins to chastise, but Petra cuts in smoothly, shirking away when she tries to offer the money again.

“You were telling me to ‘buy’ yes? You did not specify with your own money.” Petra counters, feeling smug when Dorothea says nothing for a few beats. “I would like to be treating you.”

Dorothea bites her lip to suppress her grin, and Petra feels a sudden rush of heat.

"You’re quite hard to resist, Miss Macneary.” Dorothea retreats her hand and twirls a lock of stray hair around her finger. Amazing, how she manages to look so put together despite her messy locks.

“’Petra,’ please.” Petra blushes heavily, trying not to look at her lovely hands.

“So humble.” Dorothea sighs dramatically. “However, can I show my gratitude?”

"There is no need. You have already been showing me much kindness, and this is how I am showing my gratitude."

"Oh? So you buy every girl you meet a tub of ice cream, to show your thanks huh?"

Petra recognises the attempt to fluster and rises to meet it.

"Only the most charming ones."

"Charming?" Dorothea cocks an eyebrow. "You're the charmer here, Miss Macneary. Why, I might just swoon."

"I would not be minding that, I am ever aiming to please." Petra bows with an unnecessary flourish before looking up at her with a grin. "I am thinking I can please you greatly."

"Oh, goodness." Dorothea's red face is a win in Petra's book. "The vendor’s name is Peachy Keen. Now, begone with you before I really do swoon."

"I will not be long." Petra has never been able to wink but she has a go anyway.

Dorothea's giggle tells her she does not succeed.

~*~

By the time she’s back, Dorothea is swept up in work, many patrons queueing up once again at her desk. For such a small place, it certainly can get busy. Surely there must be other libraries? Petra makes a mental note to check, not that she’s concerned with leaving Melody anytime soon.

She stands in line and unfortunately someone comes up behind her, which leaves her and Dorothea little chance for proper conversation. A shame.

“Hello.” Petra greets.

Dorothea looks tired, but when she notices Petra, she sits up straighter and coos as she’s offered the ice cream.

“Oh, my hero.” She takes the tub from Petra’s hands and pops the lid off the get to the little wooden spoon tucked in it.

Petra watches with delight as Dorothea pops a scoop into her mouth and leans back into her chair with a blissful groan. “Goddess, I love this stuff. Thank you so much.”

“I am preferring spices and savoury to sweets myself. I sat at a little park bench to be eating my lunch. Sushi is a much-loved treat in Brigid, I am glad to see it being popular in Fódlan too.”

"Blegh, fish.." Dorothea shudders. "Can't say I'm a fan, especially when it's... raw." 

“You are missing out." Petra shrugs. "Anyway, I will not be keeping you so that your work is not piling up.”

“Believe me, Petra, I wish you could keep me right now.” Dorothea sighs and Petra feels a pang of sympathy. It can’t be easy, looking after this place on her own.

A myriad of questions fills her head. How did Dorothea get to own a library? Why? Is she from Enbarr? It’s a ceaseless barrage of curiosities but they would have to be sated some other time.

“I will come to see you later, if you are not busy.”

“Alright, thanks again.” Dorothea waves her off with a smile.

Petra returns to her seat, pleased with herself. The Divine Songstress, or rather, Maneula herself, looks up at her, all-knowing as she appeared to be. Petra stares back, undeterred. She wonders what Dorothea sees in this Manuela; one can learn a lot from someone’s idols.

She’s not always committed to reading biographies in a chronological manner. There’s a bit of fun to be had in knowing where someone is going and then heading back to see where they were. So, she holds the book up on its spine and presses her finger against the closed pages. As she let’s go, she presses her finger down and the pages give way either side. She’s landed near the three-quarter mark and begins reading.

 _14_ _th_ _Great Tree Moon._

 _My dear, dear, lover was fantastic today_ . _Why, dare I say, she was utterly exceptional. First, she took me to the river for a romantic boat ride. Now, I’m not so fond of fishing, it can be very boring, but passing the time by talking at her can be quite fun when she’s only wearing a tank top and has only the finest muscles to show for it. Ugh, I love a woman who can lift me. Now she doesn’t say much, my Byleth, but when she does, it’s either the sweetest or the most absurd thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing. As she reeled in a bass (and my heart…)_

Petra smiles fondly, love is sweet, even if that line is a little corny. She can see why Dorothea likes it.

_…She said, “A fish a day keeps troubles at bay.” With all the deadpan delivery I’ve come to expect, lovingly of course. I’m not entirely sure how true that saying is, if it’s a saying at all but now that I think about it my dear does appear to fish a lot. Whatever keeps her happy, I suppose._

_Of course, the real treat came in after I had cooked us up a glorious meal using that bass. They don’t call me The Seductive Chef for nothing! I certainly pulled out a pretty number for this one, very scandalous indeed. Byleth has never been one for subtlety, she was staring at my chest the whole night, not that I minded, that was the aim after all._

Petra blushes but reads on.

_After our date and our meal, I cordially invited her to the bedroom. Oh, and we kissed like Sothis herself was coming down to smite us the next day! Byleth, for all of her seemingly (forgive me, my dear) airheaded looks, spares no passion in the bedroom. She was ruthless with me in all the right ways. By the Goddess, when she pulled my dress down and grabbed my great big honking--_

Petra abruptly chokes. She draws in a couple of concerned eyes as she clears her throat in an attempt to regain her ability to breathe. So that was the kind of woman Manuela was, Petra can respect that. This is the kind of woman Dorothea looks up to? She can also respect that.

She dares to read on and spies what she knows is definitely another word for… oh my. It’s not like she hadn’t read erotica on her phone at two in the morning when she was in the mood but this is on such a crude yet fascinating level. Perhaps it’s the fact that this love was very real that makes it a more tantalizing read.

_Byleth held me close in the glory of our afterglow and I felt… a tug, in my heart. I had felt it before when I first laid eyes on her. With every passing day, the tug grew stronger until I could hardly stand to be apart from her and now, she can’t keep her hands off of me! Why, I don’t even drink much anymore! And you know I’m a changed woman if that’s the case._

_Maybe change is the wrong word, more like, finally myself. To love and to be loved, is an act of self-love and I am full of it! As full as my huge—_

Spirits have mercy! Petra giggles this time, now that she’s expecting such language, she’s endeared. She reads on, finding more saccharine sentiments and when she’s done with the entry, she decides she’ll be taking it home for later. Now it’s time to study some more.

She feels a lot more energised to finish the damned The Eagle That Conquered now.

~*~

Only getting up to visit the restroom once or twice has done a bit of a number on Petra’s legs. As she rises from her seat, her bones ache in protest. She should really find a gym, it’s not as if her apartment has a treadmill, and the last thing she wants to become in Enbarr is inactive.

She knows why her bones are so stiff when she spies the window. It’s dark, she had completely lost track of time again. Sure enough, when she checks her phone it’s nine PM. Still, not so bad when she got so much done. She makes her way over to Dorothea, now free of patrons.

“Hello, Miss Arnault.” Petra says. “It is very late again.”

Dorothea looks away from her screen and smiles graciously. “So it is, why don’t you pull up a chair and sit with me a while?”

“I would be liking that.” Petra is almost embarrassingly eager to take her up on that offer. She picks up a chair with ease and settles at the corner of her desk on the off chance there’s one more reader lingering about.

“How did your studies go today?” Dorothea casually leans on her elbow, tilting her head just so.

“Most excellent. I have always been proud at being a good reader. I am especially thankful for that today, I do not have to read that blasted book anymore. I was very happy to put it back on the shelf.”

“You finished it already?” Dorothea’s mouth quirks into an impressed smile. “Wow, very studious.”

“I am thanking you. I could not have been doing it without your help. Oh!” She feels the weight of the other book in her arms. “The Divine Songstress, I would like to be reading it at home, please.”

Dorothea sits up straighter in her chair, looking like Petra had just delivered the best news she had heard all day. “Glad to hear it! Just pass it over and I’ll check it out.”

Dorothea’s humming drowns out the endless clatter of her keyboard, speaking of which, Petra wonders how one is able to type so quickly. Quicker than a flash, the book is stamped and handed back to her.

“I hope you like it, it would be nice to have someone else to talk about her with.”

“I have read one of her diary entries.” Petra clears her throat as she vividly recalls what came after the words ‘like a parched animal, her tongue…’ She sheepishly rubs the back of her neck. “I am already enjoying it greatly.”

Dorothea’s brow furrows before a realization seems to dawn on her. “You read one _those_ entries.” She can’t seem to contain her grin. She leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. “For all of her lyrical talent she sure could be…” She chews her lip, thinking hard.

“Um, is ‘crass’ the word?” Petra supplies, only partially confident that that’s the correct term.

“That’ll do.” Dorothea giggles, playing with her a lock of her hair before she seems to catch herself and looks away.

She takes the pen that’s perched on her glasses and chews it, (Petra starts to scream, in her mind, of course) her brows drawn together as she seems to dart between wistful and pensive.

“Something is on your mind?” She makes an effort to phrase it as a question, mindful of how Fódlan people supposedly find it rude to point out observations, no matter how obvious.

Dorothea looks at her and her expression immediately softens, Petra feels her heart _thud!_ behind her ribs. What is this woman doing to her?

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She uncrosses her legs, crosses them again, before uncrossing them. “I was just thinking of checking online to see if they’ve put any of Manuela’s vinyl’s up. I won’t be able to afford it but I like to dream.”

"Why do we not check now?”

“Maybe, when I’ve finished my work.” She pops the pen out of her mouth and twiddles it between her thumb and finger. “If you’re not busy, you can grab the bin under my desk and whittle away, wittle lady.” 

“What are you mean-- Ah! I am seeing.” Petra tuts, grinning despite herself. “You know, I am not that much shorter than you, Miss Arnault.”

Dorothea waves her hand in faux dismissal. “I know, I just love to tease.”

“I am noticing.” She has a mild flirtation to add-on, but for the moment, thinks better. Tentative steps are sometimes what’s needed and things are already going so well, so there’s no rush. “But yes, I will be carving, if you are truly not minding.”

Dorothea hums her approval. “Of course not, I’m finding I quite enjoy your company.”

“I enjoy yours as well.” Petra bites her lip as she retrieves her carving kit. “I am hoping we can continue, even if I cannot be staying every day.”

She pulls out the bin and begins her woodwork on the hummingbird, already finding her words flowing easier. “I have much to be doing while I am here, a lot to be learning.” She considers how much information she is willing to part with. “My grandfather was looking after me after my parents were dying, he is the one I suggested I come here.”

“Did you want to?” Dorothea asks, still typing. “Come to Fódlan, I mean?”

Is it obvious? Petra smooths out a curve, enjoying how it feels under her thumb. “In truth? No, I did not, but I do what must be done.”

“How serious of you.” Dorothea sounds only half-joking. “I’m sorry, it must not have been easy, coming all the way here.”

“It is okay, ease is not mattering to me, only that I am capable.” The second wing is not quite looking how she wants it to. “I am missing home but I have no regrets.” She glances up from her work to watch Dorothea, who meets her gaze after a moment.

“What?” She flusters ever so slightly, shifting in her seat.

“I cannot be having regrets if I have been meeting you.” Petra says.

Dorothea gasps and playfully slaps her arm. “You stop that or I’ll turn my charm on for real, see how you like it.”

“I would not be minding.”

“You say that now, Petra.” Dorothea sighs. “You say that now.”

Petra chuckles and they fall into a comfortable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quarantine maddening anyone else? Yes? I do hope you're managing to stay safe, dear reader. Don't give into despair, talk to your friends, they love you.
> 
> A very special thanks to [Ivy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuzuriolu/pseuds/Kuzuriolu) and Jay for being my beta readers! I would have made some very silly mistakes if not for them. Anyway, I have a commission to get on with and then on to chapter 4!
> 
> Thank you for reading and as always, tell me your favourite bit~  
> Be patient, be kind, have a nice day,  
> Marble x


	4. Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashe’s eyes light up charmingly. “Oh, so you’re Petra!” He shoots Dorothea a mischievous smile. “We’ve heard plenty of things about you.”
> 
> “Ashe!” Dorothea hisses, scandalized.
> 
> “Only good things, I am hoping.” Petra says lightly but in truth her heart skips a beat or three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience everyone, I enjoyed writng this chapter! Big thanks to [Sarah](https://twitter.com/shadocoon) as usual for being my beta! You should totally read her [modern Edeleth...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21110147/chapters/50232056) just saying...

It goes like this: Every Monday, Thursday and Friday, Petra makes her way down to Melody to study and exchange idle flirtations with Dorothea. She occasionally brings along her carving supplies, too.

“Allow me.” She says one evening, picking up a rather sizable stack of books.

Dorothea huffs but she looks far from displeased. “Honestly, if I could afford to pay you, I’d hire you on the spot!” Petra notes the not-so-subtle way she’s eyeing her biceps.

“I am happy like this, Miss Arnault.” She smiles back, putting the books in their place… while very obviously showing off a flex or two. “Helping with organizing helps me relax.”

To her delight, Dorothea is watching every move. “I wish I could say the same.” 

~*~

Another day, Dorothea asks how long Petra plans on staying in Adrestia. 

“As long as I need to.” Petra hasn’t even considered how long that will be. “I will leave when I am satisfied.”

“Satisfied with your studies?” Dorothea eyes her with a curious glance. 

“Yes. I imagine it will be some time before that happens.” Petra holds her hummingbird up to scrutiny. It’s taken a decent shape, now it needs some defining features.

“Well, if you don’t mind my saying, I hope you aren’t satisfied too quickly.”

Dorothea herself says she’s lived in Enbarr her whole life, only occasionally leaving on holidays she spent years saving for. 

“When I was a child, my mother and I would sometimes go to the travel agency just to stare at the advertisements, maybe even peek at a brochure or two. I think it was an excuse to have her head in a book, she loved to read as much as I do.” She pauses, melancholy painting her eyes in a delicate manner. “She died before we could ever get out of the country. The closest I’ve gotten to leaving is Aegir.” She says that with a little twist of her lips. “Not the best place, to say the least, but Adrestia is nice overall, I suppose.”

“I am content with Enbarr for now.” Petra has been tiptoeing around her next question for a few days now. “Please forgive me if I am asking too much, but what about your father? You have never mentioned him.”

Dorothea shrugs nonchalantly. “Nothing to tell. Never knew him.”

“I am sorry.”

“Oh, Petra.” Dorothea giggles. “ _Don’t_ be.”

She doesn’t appear to be willing to part with much more of her own history. That’s fair, Petra is much the same.

“What about your father?” She asks. Petra can see her eyes frantically scanning the shelves, Petra is distracting her.

“He was a good man.” Petra wishes she could say more but any allusion to who she is can’t be risked. “He was lost to us when I was ten years of age but I remember him well. Let me leave you to your work, I will get back to my studies.”

Dorothea reaches over to squeeze her hand once before she goes.

~*~

“Some people will try and shove a magazine into your face and ask you to buy it.” Dorothea had been educating Petra on so-called ‘street smarts’ for her past few visits. “You’re free to refuse but sometimes I can’t help myself, they probably don’t get paid much.” 

Petra finds herself buying one the next day. The magazine is complete gossip, not at all interesting but if it means the seller won’t have poor sales figures then that’s okay. She ends up handing it to Dorothea, who immediately opens on a page she seems to know to look for.

“Hhhmmm.” She hums, one eyebrow up as she taps the page with her finger. “Mercury is in retrograde.”

“What is that meaning?” Petra asks.

“No idea. When's your birthday?”

Petra is glad she decided to study the Fódlan calendar. "The seventh of Horsebow Moon."

Dorothea gasps delightedly. "I'm the twenty-ninth!"

She goes on to say that Petra should expect great things from this week but Petra feels more concerned with the constellations in her eyes when she smiles than the ones above.

~*~

When she’s not at Melody, Petra is exploring Enbarr. Sometimes she’ll spend the whole day simply taking the bus routes to get a good feel for traveling around it. She quite likes Enbarr’s buses, the metal bars are not scorched from the sun like they are back in Brigid, so she can actually grip onto them without burning her hand.

Other days, she’ll simply sit perched on the window of her apartment to try and get used to the sheer volume of noise the city makes. She pretends the honking of car horns are the cries of gulls and the thrum of their driving, the tide.

It’s been like this for a month now and she’s quite happy with herself. Her Daid has been pleased with her progress as well. As stern as he can be, he’s never been one to hold back praise. Still, she’s not entirely happy.

There’s a yawning dissatisfaction settled deep in her soul. It’s always been there, ever since her Dayn had died. _Orchynfodd._ it is called. _Void._ Her newfound friendship with Dorothea has been delightful, but it has done little to cease the fatigue that creeps into her bones.

Some days are harder to wake up for than others.

~*~

For today, maybe a break in routine is in order. Saturday’s are usually spent at the local gym but today, well, she can go to the park? No, it’s too cold. Who says she has to leave, on the other hand? She can have a day to herself...

The Divine Songstress sits on her bedside table. She has been neglecting it for the past few weeks and now is as good a time as any to pick it up again. Her bookmark- a peacock feather- is nestled comfortably around the quarter way point. It turns out Manuela had lived a turbulent life, flitting from audition to audition trying to find her ‘big break’ in an industry that never cared much for how it treated women.

_Manuela had often credited her voice to a higher power. Indeed, she believed that the Goddess Sothis herself had bestowed upon her, the voice of an angel. Some may think the Church of Seiros would have taken offence to this. It is no small thing to claim you had been uniquely chosen by the Goddess. However, their high-ranking officials, including the archbishop of the time, were often present at her showings._

Petra does not know the Goddess of Fódlan and she doesn’t particularly care to but she supposes it can be another topic of research. She pulls out her notebook and writes down ‘Sothis,’ ready for later.

Manuela being devout makes sense. Petra recalls the line, _‘Sometimes I swear I bedded the Goddess herself, so divine is she.’_ Manuela’s diary entries are far more interesting than the autobiography itself, so she places the bookmark back in the pages and skips ahead to a random entry.

 _21_ _st_ _Wyvern Moon_

_Today… was a complete disaster. My head is splitting at the seams from this damned hangover. This is why I don’t typically drink in the morning, at least I can sleep drunk if I wait till the evening. Right now, I’m maddeningly awake and dreadfully alone._

_I just thought if I had gotten my alcohol… craving, earlier than usually, then I could be more… I don’t know, genuine? My good friend Flayn, bless her soul, says I’m a wonderful gal and that I should stay sober to show all those handsome men what they’re missing!_

_Bah, well, I was somewhat sober by the time the speakeasy was starting to get lively but my head was pounding and that only gave me a fierce temper. A fiercer temper, I should say._

_I won’t go into detail about what happened, dear diary, I should like to forget._

_But I’ve never been barred before and Goddess knows it’s only a matter of time before the troupe finds out. Hell, I’m sure the tabloids are foaming at the mouth ready to publish. I can see it now, Divine Songstress, More Like, Daft Drunk! Oh, I’m a foolish woman but at least I’m so far up the food chain that this will only be a small blight on my record. I worked hard for that privilege, I will not go back to being a nobody, I will not waste the gift Sothis has given me._

_But I am not in Her arms yet, there’s a ceiling to hit and I have a feeling I’m getting closer by the day. Perhaps this next tour will be my final one… better to go out on top, after all._

_I just wish I could have found someone to climb the final steps with me._

Petra had heard of Manuela’s troubles with alcoholism from Dorothea herself, saying that she was glad it didn’t kill her in the end. When Petra asked how Manuela had died, Dorothea sighed, looking somewhat grieved. ‘Nobody knows, she disappeared along with Byleth. If their kids know where they went, they’ve never said.’ At least Petra can read on comfortably knowing Manuela did at least find love.

_I will not go back to being a nobody._

Manuela’s words roll around in Petra’s head, lacking voice but still insistent. Everybody is a somebody, in Petra’s eyes, no matter where they come from or what they have done. The biography has yet to divulge exactly what Manuela’s origins are, intent as it is on treating the narrative like a drama, but Petra can only imagine what she must have been put through to feel so… nothing.

She puts the book down and plucks her phone from the charger.

_Dorothea Arnault_

_Hello, Miss Arnault, I would like to ask you something about Manuela, if you do not mind._

_I hope your day is going well._

Dorothea’s reply came swiftly.

_Hi Petra! And of course you can!!_

_I don’t mean to brag but I’m quite the authority on Manuela-isms. My day is boooooring, I’m glad you pinged me ;)_

_I do not know what ‘pinged’ means but I am happy to help._

_What was her best performance?_

_The Dagdan Duchess is a good one. A grand role with a startling 15 minute aria. It's critically her best role. And her last one too._

_I do not care for critics. ‘Everybody is a critic’ is what Manuela wrote in one of her entries._

_I care about your opinion more, what is your favourite?_

_Haha yes that’s very like her._

_I would have to say my favourite is her role in Prim, Prime, Proper._

_Tell me more._

_Please._

_Gladly! She played a house maid who was in love with the royal gardener, classic._

_It wasn’t a large role or even a grand play but she put everything she had into it._

_When she cried, so did everyone else in the theatre._

_Why was she crying?_

_Because the man of her dreams had died after their love was finally realised._

_That does not sound pleasant :(_

_Haha well, that’s opera for you, beautiful tragedies. People love them, when all the pieces fall together to make a heart-breaking accident._

Petra frowns deeply at the text, her stomach swirling.

_There is nothing beautiful about a tragedy._

_Are all operas like this?_

_Not as much nowadays but back then? Yeah pretty much._

_A shame._

She locks her screen and places it face down on the bed, ignoring the text alert.

If her Dayn’s death had been an opera, would it have been so loved? She grabs her blanket, buries her face in it and tries to cease her thoughts but they seep through anyway. Her Dayn had died senselessly, a complete accident trying to save some arrogant fool who tried to go for a swim in waters that were far too rough.

A growing anger swells in her chest. They should have arrested him! It was _his_ fault the crown prince of Brigid died. They didn’t even try to help, they-

Another text message alert rings. She ignores it, spitefully pushing it away.

Prince Brannon, having pulled back a tourist who was preparing to jump off the rails of a ship, subsequently slipped and fell over himself, knocking his head along the way. He was either dead or unconscious when he hit the water, he never breathed air again.

A tragic accident. Petra knows this. She knows it because she saw it.

The memory chills through the hollow of her bones. _Orchynfodd_ yawns wide and she closes her now stinging eyes.

~*~

She doesn’t recall falling asleep, only waking up. She blinks wearily, rubbing her eyes free of eye dust. She spots her clock's red glare on her bedside. Only a few hours have passed, at least. As she moves to get up, something solid falls to the floor. Her phone, now facing upright, displays a few email notifications but more importantly, the texts she had neglected from Dorothea.

She swipes it up, an apology already on her fingertips.

_Dorothea Arnault_

_Oh, they’re not all so bad! I promise I’ll only ever recommend the happy ending ones just for you!_

_I mean, there’s not many but they are good!_

_Everything okay? It’s not like you to ghost._

Petra replies, having to type and retype every spelling mistake she’s making in her post-nap haze.

_I am sorry, Dorothea._

_My, dropping my first name, you must be sorry!_

_Oh, I did not even notice I did that._

_You okay, sweetheart?_

_Why do you call everyone ‘sweetheart?’_

_Oh, I didn’t even notice haha_

_But you’re dodging my question…_

Petra hesitates before deciding to answer honestly.

_I have felt better._

_Right, well we can’t have that._

_After my shift ends, you and I are going to have some fun._

_…_

_…_

Petra is about to ask how she intends on doing that when she doesn't even know the problem but Dorothea’s impending text beats her to it.

_Just meet me at the library at 9:30pm!_

_Now I have to get going, a school decided to bring their day trip in here without warping me!!!_

_*warning!!!!_

Petra readies a protest but as her heart beats a frantic rhythm in her chest and as her hands slow, she heeds the feeling of gratitude. It makes her feel warm, lighter than air that her friend would take the time to help her.

_Thank you, Miss Arnault, I will meet you there._

They’ve never met outside of Melody before, Petra realizes. What can they do? If the idea is to cheer her up, she supposes she can figure out what, in fact, could cheer her up. Talking helps, she knows that from her few therapy sessions but Dorothea doesn’t know she’s the crown princess. She cannot know. At least… not yet?

Her phone locks itself and Petra’s tired visage is reflected back up at her.

Not yet.

The least she can do is tidy herself up.

~*~ 

Dorothea rubs her temple, the chain of her glasses caught in between her finger and brow. A few strands of her hair are loose from her bun, tickling around her supple neck and her eyes are aglow with the faint glare of her desktop. Petra quite abruptly realises that it’s an attractive sort of look. The look of a woman who has accomplished a hard day's work.

“You-“ She clears her throat after finding it suddenly dry. “You are looking quite tired, Miss Arnault.”

Dorothea hums, not entirely here it seems. Petra thinks she might not have heard her until the other woman huffs and slips her glasses down her nose to look at her. “I am _extremely_ tired, Petra.” As she speaks, her blouse has shifted just a tad to reveal the dip of her collarbone. Petra tries not to stare. “Those kids were adorable, absolutely darling, even. But they were loud and rowdy.”

Ah, it’s a very attractive sort of look, Petra realises for a second time. She swallows in hopes of alleviating the tightness winding up in her throat. There’s no doubt in her mind that she’s attracted to Dorothea but this is a very sudden escalation and she’s not even sure how and why it’s happening.

“Perhaps we can be arranging for another time?” She suggests, trying to ignore the way Dorothea licks her lips after taking a sip of coffee.

“No, no, we’re going to give you some TLC.” Dorothea tuts and taps Petra’s forearm with her finger. Petra feels like she’s about to combust.

“I do not know what that means but I do not wish to take up your free time like this, when you are so tired.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re nothing but pleasant.” Dorothea leans back in her chair and her eyes glance back at her desktop. She seems to fixate on it, frown deepening before she soothes into a fond smile of realization. “Finally. You have to stay now, it’s Saturday evening.”

Petra forgets all thoughts of leaving as she wonders what can make Dorothea look so pleased. “What is the special meaning of Saturday evening?”

Dorothea fusses over herself, tucking her stay hair back into her bun and straightening her top out. “Have you been to the bakery down the street? Duscur Delights?” She asks with a spark in her eye, as if she had never been tired.

Petra shakes her head.

“Well, I happen to be on friendly terms with the owners, so they drop by every weekend to— Ah, speak of the darlings.”

The bell rings as Petra turns to see two figures who couldn’t look more different from one another. One was short, fair skinned and freckled while the other stood tall and had a darker complexion than Petra.

“Dorothea.” The shorter one says with a grin that effortlessly reaches his eyes. “This isn’t like you, you’re normally nudging them out the door at this hour.”

“Hush.” Dorothea flicks her hand at him dismissively before she swivels it and beckons them closer. “Come, let me introduce Petra here to my two favourite men. And tell me you’ve brought the goods, I could really use them right now.”

They step closer inside and Petra gets a better look at them. The short one introduces himself as ‘Ashe’ as he inclines his head in a greeting gesture Petra hasn’t seen before in Fódlan. Strange, how there is no one unanimous way to greet someone in this country. 

Ashe looks to be around his twenties despite his grey hair- how fitting, given his name- that’s cropped neatly to his jawline. His sleeves are rolled up and Petra notices the speckles of what she’s guessing is flour decorating his arms. He pops a tote bag on Dorothea’s desk before he takes the other man's hand and smiles up at him like the stars hung from his eyes.

“This is my husband, Dedue.” He says with no small amount of wonder.

‘Dedue’ is a gentle looking man, with a curious little scar just above his brow. ”Good evening.” He says pleasantly, voice deep. An apron displaying a logo for Duscur Delights is proudly wrapped around his large physique. 

Petra catches their wedding rings glint as their fingers entwine and she can see that these two are very clearly made for each other. It fills her with an inexplicable joy to see two soulmates united. 

She stands to offer them a smile and a hand over her heart as she bows slightly. A Brigid greeting.

“I am Petra.” She says, polite and eager to forge upon any new friendships.

Ashe’s eyes light up charmingly. “Oh, so _you’re_ Petra!” He shoots Dorothea a mischievous smile. “We’ve heard plenty of things about you.”

“Ashe!” Dorothea hisses, scandalized.

“Only good things, I am hoping.” Petra says lightly but in truth her heart skips a beat or three.

Dorothea rolls her eyes but she’s smirking all the same. “It’s not my fault I can’t find anything bad to say about you.”

“She likes your tattoos.” Dedue adds, the gentlest carving of humour on his features. “And your hair.”

Now Petra’s heart thunders in her ears, her cheeks threaten to ache from her smile. “Is that true?” She asks, a little bashfully.

“Of course it is.” Dorothea huffs, tucking her hair behind her ear, _shy._ She chews her bottom lip. “You’re very handsome.”

“O-oh.” A warmth spreads throughout Petra and she finds herself speechless.

Petra has never really regarded her own looks before, or rather, she doesn’t care all that much if people perceive her as ‘attractive’ or ‘not attractive.’ It was always nice when her ex-girlfriends referred to her as ‘pretty’ or ‘cute’ but…

_Handsome._

She finds her voice after realizing that she’s all but gawking at Dorothea. “Thank you, Dorothea.” She reaches out and touches her arm. “Your words are making my heart feel full.”

“Good.” Dorothea grins, a dreamy look in her eyes before seeming to catch herself. She clears her throat. “Ashe, what have you got for me today?”

Ashe says something in response but Petra is too preoccupied by the past few moments to hear. The realisation that Dorothea has been mentioning her outside of their usual routine seems to smack her in the face. The flirtations, while Petra never took them for granted, feel more real now...

The shuffling of paper brings her out of musing as Dorothea is poking her hands into the bag. “The both of you are stars, utter champions.” She produces a quaint little pastry and holds it up like it’s a sacred relic of time gone by. Petra’s never seen a pastry like it before but the smell is sweet.

“Only the best for you, Dorothea.” Ashe says, patting his husband's arm. “Well, it would have been the best had Dedue baked this batch but I did the baklava today. Tell me, how are they?”

Dorothea breaks off a portion and offers it to Petra. “I think we should let Petra decide that.”

Petra doesn’t think of the social implications when she leans forward and takes the portion into her mouth. It doesn’t occur to her that maybe Dorothea intended for her to take it from her with her hand. So, when she pulls back to chew, she’s surprised to see Dorothea’s face red, her smile frozen in place. Her chewing slows as it dawns on her how this must look to the two men just out of her vision.

She doesn’t turn her head to dare make eye contact with the boys, tries to focus on the flavour but her face is so hot and Spirits have mercy she could have sworn her lips might have brushed against her fingers.

Perhaps if she just swiftly moves on…

“Ish veh guh.” She says with her mouth full. She can practically hear her mother’s disappointment. She finishes her food, like an adult, before repeating herself. “It’s very good! Is it a home recipe?”

The question is more of a distraction as she swirls her tongue in her mouth, trying to chase the sweet flavour.

“Yes.” Dedue answers. “My mother has her own restaurant in Duscur. She taught me and my sisters how to cook while my father taught me how to take care of plants. I was always torn between being a baker or a florist.” He regards Ashe fondly. “This one tipped the scales.”

“Oh, you two.” Dorothea sighs, apparently out of her trance. “You’re as sweet as can be.” Petra can’t quite look at her but she does hear the crunch of pastry and the groan that follows it. She contemplates sending a quick prayer to the Spirits. “Perfect as always.”

“Thank you, Dorothea.” Ashe sheepishly grins. “As much as we’d love to catch up, we need to head home, we’re heading to Faerghus to visit my family in the morning.”

“And you still came over to visit?” Dorothea sounds in genuine disbelief. “What did I ever do to deserve you two?”

“Please, anything for the Mystical Songstress.” Ashe laughs. 

Petra senses a very tense shift in the atmosphere as soon as the words leave his mouth. Dedue stiffens, his face suddenly void of any emotion. Ashe’s eyes widen quite suddenly as they dart between her and Dorothea. He looks as if he’s going to stammer something out but Dorothea beats him to it.

“You treat me too well, boys.” She giggles. If she’s at all disturbed by their strange change in behaviour, she doesn’t show it.

The tension hasn’t left but Ashe relaxes his shoulders. “I don’t think we do, Dorothea. I hope you enjoy the rest of the treats. It was lovely to meet you, Petra.”

“The same to you.” Petra, while a little confused, doesn’t feel it prudent to ask anything. These men are nice enough, it would be crossing a line to pry.

“Be well, Dorothea. Petra.”

Petra offers him a nod, which he returns.

“Goodbye, boys.” Dorothea gets up out of her chair and wraps her arms around them both. “Have a good time, say hi to your family for me.”

“We will.” Ashe seems to hold on particularly tight before she releases them. Petra watches them go, arm-in-arm, Ashe with his head bowed and Dedue holding his hand.

Dorothea stands by Petra and leans against her desk. The world goes quiet but Petra’s mind is racing.

Petra wants to ask what all that was about. The Mystical Songstress? She knows that has something to do with the _other_ Dorothea Arnault. An inside joke perhaps? It must be, she didn’t react with nearly the same ire as she did when Ferdinand accused her.

“Petra.” Dorothea sighs. “I can hear you thinking.”

Petra blinks back into reality, meeting Dorothea’s gaze with an apologetic smile. “I am sorry, Miss Arnault.”

“Don’t be. Let’s just…” She looks up, as if the roof will help her find the words. Attraction aside, Petra can see she really is tired. 

Petra takes out another piece of baklava and offers it to Dorothea. “You are needing the sugar.”

Dorothea raises her brow, eyeing Petra as if she was trying to play some sort of trick. “Sugar, hm?” She takes off her glasses, folding them up.

“Yes.” Petra gestures once again. “Here, take it.”

Dorothea hums, taking hold of Petra’s wrist like it’s some delicate thing. She feels an incredible heat pool in her stomach when Dorothea closes her eyes, leans forward and takes the treat into her mouth. She doesn’t pull back right away as she chews and swallows. Her brows furrow when a quiet groan slips out.

“That’s good.” She hums.

“Yes.” Petra breathes, acutely aware of how sweet her lips must be.

When Dorothea meets her gaze, she’s beautiful, as ever… and smug, eyes glittering with a challenge. She starts to pull away, knowing full well what she’s just done. But before she can, Petra lifts her hand to her mouth and wipes a crumb off her bottom lip with her thumb.

“There.” Petra grins, making a show of admiring her. “Now it is perfect.”

Dorothea gasps before she pulls away and bats at Petra’s arm. “You’re going to be the death of me, I swear.”

“A strange thing to be swearing.” Petra feigns ignorance to the phrase. “Would you not be preferring we make each other feel alive?”

Dorothea looks at her strangely, a not-quite smile as her tongue presses against the inside of her cheek. She reaches behind her head, plucking the pin and letting her hair fall down in a wavy cascade. Petra feels her breath leave her lungs from witnessing the simple act and Dorothea sighs in a manner that is far too world-weary for someone so young.

“At the risk of sounding dreary.” She smiles at Petra, though it’s weak. ‘It _has_ been a while since I’ve really felt alive.”

“Me too.” The words tumble out before Petra thinks. Dorothea blinks in surprise and looks as if she’s waiting for Petra to elaborate, she does her best. “Coming to Adrestia has been helping, this is true but it is not always enough. I feel like there are times when I am not feeling anything at all or that I feel too much. You have understanding, yes?”

She dares to hold Dorothea’s hand in her own and the librarian gives her a squeeze in return. They feel like a perfect fit.“Yes, Petra, I understand completely.” 

“That fills me with much relief.” It truly does. Her friends back home had been kind, of course, but none had really empathised. “That you are knowing of my feelings makes me feel less alone. But I hope you also have understanding that meeting you has been one of the best things that has happened to me in a long time. I am… seldom? Yes, I am seldom sad when I am with you.”

“Petra that’s awfully sweet of you.” Dorothea visibly swallows, as if she’s trying to push through hesitation on her end. She shifts closer and Petra invites her in, filling the space between them just a bit more. What she says next feels like a dream, said with a half lidded-gaze and a trickle of awe. “I feel the same.”

Petra’s head tilts just so as the nervous energy simmers between them. Their hands are locked together, tight. She’s so close now, their noses gently bump into one another and she can feel Dorothea exhale on her lips, so sweet. If she just leans in a little more…

Someone’s phone buzzes- loudly. Annoyingly. Bastardly. World-endingly. Dorothea’s lips breeze past Petra’s with a sharp intake of breath and her head falls onto her shoulder. Her hands, her entire body, in fact, slackens against Petra before she straightens herself up. Petra is dazed, her lips are tingling, her heart is racing.

She manages to blink back into the moment as Dorothea rather briskly picks up her phone, expression stormy.

Petra brings her fingertips to her lips. They had nearly kissed. The threshold between them, nearly crossed.

With a few rapid swipes of her thumb and a few seconds to stare, Dorothea’s face softens.

“It’s Ashe.” She puts her phone down with a resigned stare and looks at Petra with a crestfallen gaze. “Sorry for… that. I was supposed to be cheering you up, not making you uncomfortable.”

Despite herself, Petra can’t help but giggle. “Do not be sorry.” She reaches for Dorothea’s hand again and the librarian allows it. “You have cheered me up more than I thought I could be cheering up.”

“Oh.” Dorothea’s cheeks go pink as she threads her fingers through her hair. “Well, that makes me happy. I like helping my friends.”

“Are you nearly kissing all of your friends, or just me?” Petra asks, careful to keep her tone light. She doesn’t want to believe Dorothea might regret what just happened but just in case, it’s better to be humorous. 

She’s relieved when Dorothea hides her laughter behind her hand. “Only you, you poor thing.”

“I am far from poor, Miss Arnault.”

“Petraaaaaa.” Dorothea half-whines, squeezing her hands. “Lucky for you I have a soft spot for corny stuff.”

“That is a shame, there is no corn, only baklava here.” Petra shakes the bag for emphasis, once again failing to wink.

Dorothea’s laughter is something she wants to tuck into her heart for safe-keeping. Oh, her feelings are quite serious, she notices.

Dorothea checks her watch, a smile as bright as the sun on her face. “Are you busy tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Good. Now, I know it’s late but want to go out for some supper?”

Petra tilts her head.

“Like a late-night meal?” Dorothea clarifies patiently. “M-maybe like a date?”

“Oh!” Petra squeaks rather embarrassingly. “Yes, I would be liking that, Miss Arnault.”

“On one condition!” Dorothea furrows her brow, waggling her finger. “Call me Dorothea.”

“I can be doing that, Dorothea.” Petra promises, tapping her chest with her fist.

“Goodness, well, that’s good, then!” Dorothea is practically buzzing. “I do like it when you say my name, it feels... special.”

 _You are special,_ Petra thinks. _Too special to keep the truth from for much longer._

Petra _needs_ to tell her who she is. Though elated that Dorothea is quite openly interested in her, guilt has begun to gnaw in her stomach. It’s a good thing they hadn’t kissed in the end. If tonight is the night they risk crossing the line again, she will tell her before they take the final step.

That certainly adds a new weight to the situation. Petra gulps as she looks into those almost unnaturally blue eyes. She’s so drawn into them, she would hate for them to look upon her with anything other than the gentle yet fiery kindness Dorothea blesses her with.

No more cowardice, she decides, Dorothea finds out tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this took... about as long as expected, given my dreadful pace of writing but oh well! I just love having the girls flirt. I won't be convinced that Petra isn't witty just because she doesn't speak the language as well Plus, it doesn't get in the way of her sincerity. Next chapter will get a bit more... serious but in what way I wonder hmmmm...
> 
> Also who owns the bar they're going to? Comment your guess bellow along with your fave line! ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading, you make it all worth it! xx


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